


The Different Stages of Grief

by Archaeologyfiend



Series: From a Certain Point of View [3]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anakin Skywalker Needs a Hug, Anakin is in need of all the therapy, As is Obi Wan Kenobi, Depression, Five Stages of Grief, Grief/Mourning, Human Disaster Anakin Skywalker, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Not favourably, OC's - Freeform, Or towards Obi Wan, Owen Lars is mentioned, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rebellion also mentioned, References to terroism and its consequences, References to the Jedi Council, Slavery, Tatooine Slave Culture, Therapy, This can get heavy at times, be aware, they're all here - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-22
Updated: 2019-01-22
Packaged: 2019-10-14 18:12:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17513462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Archaeologyfiend/pseuds/Archaeologyfiend
Summary: Sy-Ro Kenobi is called to give therapy to one Ani Naberrie, which he accepts in an attempt to help his grief over losing his wife. He finds a man in need of more help than he originally thought.OrSy-Ro Kenobi learns more about the life his brother entered and decides he'd rather not know. And that his brother is a stranger.





	The Different Stages of Grief

**Author's Note:**

> TRIGGER WARNING. There is talk about depression and suicide in this, including a piece at the end briefly describing a suicide attempt. If this will trigger you, DO NOT read. And please be safe xx
> 
> Other than that, just a warning that this can get a bit intense in ripping into the Jedi. If that bothers you, don't read.

Sy-Ro Kenobi had a bad feeling about this endeavour as the private transport landed at a small landing jetty on a rural estate on Naboo. It had not been too long ago since he had buried his wife and he was still grieving. There was no reason to have taken on this job, not after all that had happened. But the Senator had been rather persuasive and had assured him that the job wouldn’t be continuous. It would only be a beginning interview, to see if he would be a viable candidate to take up this case, if he felt comfortable to do so.

Sy-Ro glanced down at the datapad, the encrypted file already pulled up. Lady Sola Naberrie’s brother-in-law, widower Ani Naberrie. Curious that he had taken their name but not unheard of. Considering that this Ani was noted down as having only just recently had the slave-chip removed it was no wonder. He probably wanted all reminders of his enslavement scrubbed away. That they were in desperate need of a psychiatrist and that Villes had reached out to him herself to request it, apologising profusely for the terrible timing, had managed to pull him enough out of his bereavement to agree. He needed to _do_ something and since his office currently wouldn’t let him practice, he had taken up this offer instead.

The woman who was waiting for him at the bottom of the ramp was much older than he expected. Grey hair hung long down her back, wrapped in a robe over what must have been a nightdress and leaning on an intricately carved stick. To be fair, it was the middle of the night and he had tried to insist that they wait in Theed but the pilot was having none of it. He had merely stated that they were waiting for him.

“Hello Mr Kenobi,” the woman said, holding out a hand for him to take “I am Jobal Naberrie. Welcome to Varykino.” _Ah, Sola’s mother_. He didn’t know much about her, even less than he did about the Naberries in general. Perhaps he ought to have paid more attention to politics, but the Republic had always left a bad taste in his mouth and the Empire was hardly much better. Instead he focused on his job, first as a junior lawyer and, when that had rubbed him the wrong way, psychiatry.

“Lady Naberrie,” he said, giving her a soft bow and taking her hand. The woman waved it off with a huff.

“Pah, Lady. A superfluous title but useful.” That was… an odd comment to make but she was already walking away, gesturing for him to follow. “Come along, Mr Kenobi. I am old, and it is late. Your rooms are already prepared.”

“Of course,” he said, deciding to just go with it. Nothing she said was untrue and he could mull over her statement later. Falling into bed sounded like a good idea too. He was led through the manor house, past a dining room, lounge area and to a corridor facing the vast lake gardens where the bedrooms were located. The room he was given was a small modest double bedroom, still of a much higher standard than he was used to. His tiny apartment on Coruscant paled in comparison.

“I will see you in the morning,” Jobal said, taking her leave, most likely back to his room. Sy-Ro wondered if she owned the estate or if it were someone else. That matter, however, could wait until morning.

* * *

As was his custom, Sy-Ro still rose early and rolled over to wake Meera. He then remembered that she was no longer there, and he was not on Coruscant. The grief was palpable, and he swallowed, staring at the ceiling. _Meera… I still miss you_. The psychiatrist in him was still trying to decide if he had entered depression or was still in the denial stage. A sad state of affairs he was in. But he acknowledged the grief, took a moment to close his eyes and remember his wonderful wife in the hey days of the marriage, before the sickness had overrun everything, and then rose to start the day. A pitiful attempt to appear put together and professional. It was early enough that no one else appeared to be awake, however, after making a cup of tea in the kitchen and deciding to drink it in the garden, he found himself joined by a stranger in a hoverchair.

The man would most likely have been rather handsome once upon a time. Underneath thick, ropy burn scars laid a handsome face, fine features and bright blue eyes, now sunken into the face and ringed with dark circles, watching the sunrise. However, some great incident had taken that away. Only half of the right arm remained, replaced by an archaic but rather beautiful prosthetic, while the left looked like some monstrosity, put together by scrap and sharp knives. Both legs had been severed at the thighs, the stumps hidden underneath the bed-robe wrapped around him. Tufts of wispy dark blonde hair grew here and there where the scars were not so thick, although one long thick scar took up most of his scalp. Behind the hoverchair, a pair of large double doors were open, showing what appeared to be a nursery- obviously not where this man was staying.

“I can feel you staring.” Sy-Ro jumped at the raspy, slightly mechanical voice. His companion had not turned in the chair, but he got the sense the other man was watching him. “Feel free to sit.” The strange twisted left prosthetic gestured to the stone bench to the side of him. Feeling rather awkward, Sy-Ro sat on the cool marble, staring out over the lake. If he were to take a guess, this was most likely his patient. He noticed that the man also had a cup of tea cradled in his lap, although it looked untouched.

“My apologies, Mr Naberrie,” Sy-Ro said softly, casting his eyes towards his cup. It had been a long time since he had felt this awkward around someone. Not since the Jedi had come to retrieve his little brother anyhow. Naberrie made a soft noise of surprise, head turning ever so slightly towards him, but eyes glued on the rising sun. Sy-Ro wondered about the man’s fixation on it.

“It’s Anakin. Please.” Sy-Ro blinked but nodded, accepting that. _Ani must be a nickname_. There was a comfortable silence as the sun rose, Sy-Ro contemplating his new patient while Anakin’s tea went cold and untouched. He wondered if the man knew it was there at all.

“A beautiful sunrise,” Sy-Ro commented after a while. “Far different to Coruscant.”

“Mm,” Anakin hummed, still staring out over the lakes, sighing. “Naboo doesn’t have the pollution to cloud the true colours of the sun.” And there it was again, a strange choice of words, just like the Lady Jobel the night before. It spoke of some secret that they were keeping, but what Sy-Ro couldn’t tell. _Perhaps Meera might… have…_ He shut that thought down quickly. Meera wasn’t here to help on his cases anymore, not with legal advice and certainly not with profiling patients. Anakin, however, suddenly turned to face him.

“I told Sola not to contact you,” he said abruptly, and Sy-Ro reeled back, startled by the man’s admission. “I told her it wasn’t appropriate.” Well, this man was a widower too, he was most likely to understand what it was he was going through. Sy-Ro shrugged, sipping the last of his tea, now cold and slightly stagnant.

“I wouldn’t have taken the case, had I thought I wasn’t up to it. Besides,” he mused out loud, turning to look at the now bright blue sky, sun hanging just high enough over the lake, “I needed something to do.” Anakin gave a sigh and shook his head, turning away a moment.

“That’s not the only reason.” He fiddled with the chair a moment, turning it back towards the house. “Come in when your ready.” Sy-Ro blinked. He was certain he was the one supposed to say that, and he hadn’t expected the slight tone of command in his voice either. He watched as Anakin navigated back into the house, not through the nursery like he had expected (as he most certainly had come through that way) but through a conservatory that Sy-Ro hadn’t noticed yet. A maid was already making her way through the nursery, cleaning and, strangely, placing a sheet over the cradle. Wouldn’t that make the child hot? He stepped forward to say something, but the twi’lek girl just gave him a smile, dipped a small curtsy and hurried off, presumably to carry on elsewhere. Cautiously, Sy-Ro tiptoed inside, not wanting to wake the infant up. However, when he pulled back the sheet, he got a surprise.

The cradle was empty. There was no infant, no child using this space. So why…? On the mantlepiece were several holos, some depicting a woman that Sy-Ro recognised as Senator Amidala, the Senator for Naboo during the Clone Wars, others a man in dark Jedi robes, young and handsome. It took a moment for Sy-Ro to recognise him as Anakin. One showed them at a wedding, a strange mix of Nabooan customs, as shown by the various flowers and the registrar in the background, and something else. The Senator’s dress was not the typical lace affair usually found in Naboo weddings, not an ounce of fancy jewellery in sight and her hair was worn loose, not up in any fancy hairstyle. The roses that made up her wedding coronet were red, not the usual pale pink or yellow, as were those in the bouquet. Anakin’s robes too, while vaguely reminiscent of Jedi robes, were loose, coloured blue and decorated with strange symbols and glyphs and his hair was tangled with a coronet of white roses. Both were young and smiling, happy. The final picture on the mantlepiece showed them both again, presumably taken by a droid considering the precise angling, although neither appeared to have realised they were being photographed. Amidala’s stomach was swollen, and Anakin had a hand on the bump, eyes closed. Both were laughing.

Cold dread trickled down his back. This wasn’t a nursery. It wasn’t even a tomb. It was a mausoleum, a place for all the happy memories of a marriage that no one but the family had known about, to be packaged up and placed out of sight of the public. Senator Amidala had a tomb- this was a memorial so much more intimate and personal. And one that he realised spoke far more volumes than anything else. It was not just for Amidala and her marriage, but for the lost child too. For the youngling the room was intended for, overlooking the lakes, with a crib decorated in whatever glyphs were native to Anakin’s home. For all of the things that, under the Jedi Code, Anakin was not supposed to have. And for the first time since Meera’s death, Sy-Ro was angry. Angry that the universe was so unfair, angry at the Jedi for stealing away his brother, angry that little Obi-Wan, who had stared up at him as a toddler with large frightened eyes, would never have known such unbridled happiness as unconditional and intimate love for another person, and angry that Meera was dead, stolen by a sickness created by a Rebel bomb. Had that bomb not detonated, had she not insisted on going to work that day, so close to the damned Emperor’s factory that the Rebels just _had_ to blow up, perhaps she would still be here with him.

And for the first time since the life-support machine had clicked off, since the monitor screamed the flatline at him, Sy-Ro cried.

* * *

It was not Sola, Jobal or Anakin who found him, about an hour later, sat on the floor of that nursery and feeling wrung out all over again. Instead, it was a small girl, only about four or so, with brown curls and eyes, curious as to who was in this unused room. She sat down next to him, a stuffed ragdoll in hand, and gently patted his arm, silent. It took him a moment to compose himself, turning to look down at this girl who could not comprehend such grief and gave her a wobbly smile.

“Hello there, young one,” he said, voice still slightly shaky. He was in desperate need of more tea, but he felt too tired and wrung out to go to the kitchens for one. And he wasn’t going to inconvenience a servant just for his pathetic needs. It was something he had to work through on his own. She gave him a bright smile in return and something soft and warm seemed to wrap around him.

“You were sad,” she said sagely. “Uncle Ani said your wife died.”

“Yes,” Sy-Ro breathed, swallowing through a now dry mouth. “She did.”

“What was she like?” she asked, curious.

“She was…” Sy-Ro wondered how he could describe her. How he could describe the woman who had stolen him away one night when they were both students, dragging him through the underbelly of Coruscant and laughing, showing him how to have a good time. How she had not cared about his at-the-time unpopular views of the Jedi and had listened to each grievance he had with them. How she had argued with him about his quitting becoming a proper lawyer and changing fields until he had explained just why he couldn’t do it and then become his greatest supporter. How, even when they were their most distant, when it seemed to him like they would never be able to come together emotionally again after that awful, _awful_ discovery, she had sat down, wrapped her arms around him and whispered _it doesn’t matter. I still love you anyway. There’s always adoption_. How was he supposed to sum all of that up?

“She sounds like an amazing woman,” the girl whispered, cuddling down closer to him. Sy-Ro jumped, wondering what she meant. He hadn’t… The warm feeling tightened around him and Sy-Ro blinked, realization coming over him.

“You’re Force Sensitive?” he asked, curious. She nodded, saying nothing, just waiting. He sighed, closing his eyes. “My brother was like that too, but he got taken by the Jedi Order after his second birthday. I never saw him again.” The girl blinked, head tilted to the side.

“I didn’t know that,” she said. “That sounds awful.” Sy-Ro nodded but gave her a smile. He supposed M’Ertha was right. Children were an excellent medicine sometimes.

“You have no need to worry. They’re gone now.” If he could thank Vader for that, it was probably the only thing he would thank him for. Unlike half the galaxy, he hadn’t mourned the Jedi: instead he had thought about the tears in his mother’s eyes as she wept every night for a week after her youngest was taken, how she had clung to him all the more and thought it justice. How many other families had suffered like his? How many other children had been tricked into going, like Obi-Wan had? It was why he couldn’t become a lawyer- after a while he had realised that it meant working at times with Jedi, working with people who thought themselves exempt from the law of whatever planet they were on.

Luckily, the Jedi had never been in need of psychiatrists.

“Do you want some tea?” the little girl asked, taking his hand. “Grandmama makes the best iced tea.” He preferred his hot, but it didn’t sound like such a bad idea.

He was led back out to the gardens, around the house and the conservatory to a small outdoor gazebo set overlooking the lakes and nearby fields. Sy-Ro had to admit, Varykino had some stunning views, especially considering the fact that part of it overhung the cliff. Jobal and Sola were sat, along with two younger women who had to be Sola’s daughters, Pooja and Ryoo Naberrie. Which meant that the girl leading him must be Milè, her youngest. Sat with them was Anakin, now dressed in a loose tunic and wearing a pair of glasses, who appeared to be listening to Ryoo as she babbled on about what sounded like her school, the nineteen-year-old presumably on holidays right now from university. He wasn’t smiling but he did seem somewhat content surrounded by his family. Milè ran forward, jumping enthusiastically into his lap, not minding the fact that she practically ran under the table to do so.

“Look who I found!” she exclaimed, sounding almost proud of herself. Anakin blinked, looking almost surprised to see her, right arm coming up to steady her automatically, so she didn’t topple off the chair. Jobal, however, just gave him a mildly unimpressed look.

“About time. It’s bad enough when my son-in-law spends his down time staring for hours at end at nothing. I would have thought a psychiatrist would know better.” Sy-Ro winced at her sharp tone, once again thrown off by the idea of ‘down-time’. What was Anakin doing that required ‘ _down-time_ ’ other than recovering from whatever injury had occurred recently? He gave a soft cough, accepting the cup of iced tea that Pooja offered him, embarrassed.

“I’m sorry,” he said, glad that the cool liquid helped take away some of the roughness in his voice. “That was… unprofessional of me.”

“Don’t mind my mother,” Sola said softly. “She’s not been quite the same since we lost Padme.”

“Hmph. You mean since we lost the twins,” the old woman muttered, but merely returned to her meal. Sy-Ro decided to just accept the invitation to breakfast, deciding that perhaps it wasn’t just Anakin who needed the therapy. He was somewhat decent at grief counselling, despite his specialism being PTSD. Sola swatted her mother semi-playfully, turning the conversation away from the clearly painful past.

“I hope the journey wasn’t too bad. Farrick would have dropped you off at a better time if he could.” Sy-Ro waved away those concerns. Meera had often been roused at strange hours to see to clients who had gotten themselves in trouble and he had always woken with her.

“It was no trouble.” He took another sip of his drink watching them all, a small pocket of peace in the galaxy. “I would like to ask though: why me?” The question had been nagging at him in the back of his mind. A strange silence settled over the table, a tension in the air that had his instincts immediately screaming. It seemed he had hit the nail on the head. Sola sighed, very deliberately placing her own cup down, threading her hands together.

“It comes at a terrible time for you, but you were thoroughly recommended by Colonel Veers after the… unfortunate business over Ryloth.” Sy-Ro nodded, remembering the man. A hard-faced man, one who had fought during the Clone Wars and now slowly working his way back up in the Imperial Army. He had been nice enough though and had talked a great deal about his family too. “We were also curious about your views on the Jedi of old.” He grimaced at that- no doubt their ex-Jedi in-law probably had issues with that then. He put his cup on the table, considering his next words carefully.

“Because they were unpopular ten years ago or because they’re popular now?” he asked. One ruined eyebrow rose, and Sy-Ro re-evaluated his opinion. Perhaps that _wasn’t_ why Anakin considered him an unworthy option. Sola gave him a smile.

“Indulge us.” Hm, a politician to her last then. Sy-Ro sighed and gave her a listless shrug.

“It is simple really. They gave my brother this wonderful explanation of all that it was to be a Jedi and then took him away forever. My mother never truly recovered from the loss.” A silence stretched out over the table and then, a quiet whisper from the youngest.

“Did they do that you?” She was staring up at her uncle from her place in his lap and Anakin gave her a brief kiss to the temple.

“Something like that. My circumstances were… different.” _Ex-slave_ Sy-Ro remembered. Probably found later than Obi-Wan and most likely freed instead of the rest of his family. He internally winced at that thought. No wonder he was in dire need of a psychiatrist and that didn’t even get into the fact that the Jedi were generals during the Clone Wars. No doubt a man who had once been enslaved would not treat the clones as _expendable_. Although, it was curious that his file noted the chip only being removed recently, rather than immediately. The implications that rose from that… didn’t bear thinking about. Milè seemed to accept that explanation, snuggling down closer. Pooja and Ryoo, however, looked slightly horrified.

“You mean the Jedi were never allowed to visit family?” Ryoo asked, her youth making itself known.

“Family was attachment.” Anakin’s voice was deeply bitter, an old hurt rising to the surface. “Attachment was a path to the Dark Side.” _The what?_ Sy-Ro thought. There was a Dark Side? A good and bad? Did the Jedi truly think of things in such black and white terms? Perhaps he ought to re-think the idea that Jedi weren’t in need of psychiatrists.

“That seems like banth sh-“ Ryoo cut off, a faint blush crossing her cheeks as her mother shot her a sharp look. “Rubbish,” she corrected herself with a delicate little cough. Milè glanced up, curious, and something like a smile seemed to cross Anakin’s face ever so briefly. Jobal just nodded her head in her granddaughter’s direction.

“From what I’ve heard, that is an adequate way to describe _many_ of the actions the Jedi took,” she sniffed.

“So, you hired me because I agree with you?” He had to be sure about this. There was still something deliberately left unsaid, something he knew he needed to know about. Sola and Jobal shared a look, both glancing at Anakin who was just concentrating on the four-year old. Eventually, Sola sighed, fiddling with the tablecloth.

“We hired you on the recommendations of Villes and Veers, but we had our reservations.” She paused again, and Anakin suddenly cut in.

“This isn’t something Milè needs to hear.” A moment later he was gone, girl and all, who Sy-Ro could hear asking questions as they left. No one spoke until they were both gone, sadness etched into the Naberries faces. Sola took that as a cue to continue.

“Yes. Sy-Ro, this might seem a little… impertinent, but did you know what happened to your brother after he joined the Order?” Sola asked. Sy-Ro frowned.

“Of course. Half of my clients at the time liked to talk about him, how they served under the _great General Kenobi_.” It was unprofessional for so much sarcasm to find its way into his voice, a fact that he was glad that his patient wasn’t around to hear. He had never let his patients feel judged for their views- that was not something he would ever do, even had his brother staggered through his door one day- but the deep-seated resentment was still there. People seemed to assume he was like the great Negotiator, and not Doctor Kenobi who had worked hard for his own degrees and hadn’t got where he had on his brother’s name. “It was all anyone would talk about during the Clone Wars.” Sola nodded, face carefully blank while Jobal looked like she was quietly congratulating him on his little speech. Pooja and Ryoo were looking between each other before Pooja suddenly got up too.

“You know, I think I need to look through some of Aunt Padme’s old books for my dissertation. Ryoo, come on, I know you have an assignment to finish,” she said, pulling her sister off with her. The younger girl didn’t even fight, taking the excuse like an escape route and running off inside. Sy-Ro watched them go, that blank feeling rising again. Something was off about this whole situation.

“Doctor Kenobi?” Sola asked, bringing his attention back to her. It was the first time any of them had used his professional name. She was still blank-faced but there was something like pity in her eyes. “Our issue is, you see, that your brother was Anakin’s Jedi Master.” She said the term like it was something foul. “His mentor and, while Anakin will never admit to it, the closest thing he had to a father.” Here she paused, her face suddenly split somewhere between sadness and anger. “He’s also the reason why Anakin is the way he is.” The implications of that hit him with the force of a speeder. He was glad to be sitting as he considered that. Then he nodded, numb.

“Thank you,” he said, wondering what other shocks they had in store for him. “I shall need some time to think on this.”

* * *

Sy-Ro had wandered the estate for what seemed like hours. His watch told him it had only been two. He wasn’t just here to test if he would be good for Anakin. It was also a test of whether _Anakin_ would agree to be treated by him. He glanced down at the lake, tracing his features mentally, not for the first time comparing them to that of his little brother’s. He would be fifty now. People used to always say that they looked alike when Sy-Ro wore a beard, so he had been clean shaven since the Clone Wars began. Meera had never minded- she said she had hated the tickle of the beard anyway, usually with a laugh to show she was teasing. His eyes were brown however, taking after their father and his hair was a darker red when it still had colour to it. Now it was slate grey, neatly trimmed and brushed back, his glasses currently propped up on his head. A respectable businessman-look. Neat, clean shaven and sleeves rolled back to the elbows from heat of the summer’s day here on Naboo. There was more weight to him though- he didn’t exactly have the constant exercise regimen of a Jedi and so there was flab, mostly put on the past few weeks from not keeping up with his own personal exercise program his grief.

But no matter what he did, he would always be Obi-Wan Kenobi’s brother.

Sy-Ro hated to think of his brother, especially now when he so desperately needed Meera’s support. Meera would know what to do, how to feel about this situation. Perhaps she would have known the proper reaction to the knowledge that his _brother_ had disabled that man so badly. Damaged him in a way both physically and mentally that no doubt it would take years to put him back together. It looked like it already had. And the name… the rumours had been that Anakin Skywalker had died. It was recorded that he had been killed at the end of the Clone Wars, one of the many Jedi to die during Order 66. Now, however, he knew that he hadn’t.

He’d just changed sides.

It didn’t take a genius for Sy-Ro to work outwards from there. He had always looked at the suit Vader wore and known it must have a medical reason. He had looked at the ways Senator Amidala and Anakin Skywalker deliberately _didn’t_ look at each other and gave a fond smile every time. _Young love_ he had thought at the time. Had it been made aware to him who his exact patient would be when Villes initially contacted him, he would have been politely intrigued and perhaps agreed to meet at a later date when he wasn’t grieving so strongly. It wasn’t everyday that one got to meet the Emperor’s Second in Command and it would have been enough money to cover all the debts stacking up from Meera’s funeral. He would have been able to leave Coruscant for good. Now… now, however, he could see why treating the man could be seen as inappropriate. How was Anakin supposed to differentiate between him and his brother? How could he trust him to be impartial when he would most likely be speaking some heavy bile towards his little brother?

Sy-Ro’s panicked musings were cut off by a loud _snip_ from the rose-bush next to him and he jumped. There sat the man in question, a pair of small shears in one hand, basket in his lap, cutting red roses from the bush. Sy-Ro stared, not sure whether the man had meant to make himself known.

“You were thinking very loudly,” Anakin said, placing the recently cut rose in the basket. Sy-Ro stared blankly, unsure what that meant. A shadow of a smile. “It was giving me a headache.”

“Ah, my apologies,” Sy-Ro said, dipping his head in embarrassment. Of course, Jedi training. The Force. The man could probably feel his maelstrom of emotions from the other side of the estate.

“You’re nothing like him,” Anakin observed, apparently absorbed in his task, but Sy-Ro wasn’t deceived. “My old Master kept all his emotions bottled away like the perfect little Jedi.” Sy-Ro frowned.

“That sounds unhealthy,” he said slowly, taking that in. “Are Jedi not supposed to feel?”

“A good Jedi is calm, composed and compassionate,” Anakin said, almost like a mantra. “They don’t form attachments and follow the will of the Force at all times.”

“Sounds like it wasn’t the kind of life an ex-slave ought to be brought into.” Anakin snorted but simply clipped off another flower. Sy-Ro never thought that he would be here, having a conversation with Lord Vader while he was _gardening_ of all things.

“He left me to die.” The statement was abrupt, and Anakin hesitated in his movement a moment, the metal fingers twitching and nearly crushing the rose in hand. Abrupt statements seemed to be a habit of his. “He cut off my limbs and left me to die. On Mustafar.” Sy-Ro got the feeling this was something he hadn’t said out loud before, a myriad of emotions bottled up behind the calm exterior. _It wasn’t just Obi-Wan they taught to push away emotions_ he found himself thinking sadly. _Oh, mother, how you must be rolling in your grave._

“I’m afraid I’ve never been,” Sy-Ro said, softly prompting him on. If he was going to do this, he got the feeling Anakin needed to say this. That he was being tested in some way. To see if, he too, would run away.

“Don’t. It’s a volcano planet.” Sy-Ro winced, taking note once again of the burn scars. _Brother, it would have been kinder to kill him_. “I don’t remember it well. I was stuck somewhere between drowning in the Dark Side and the slave chip.” Another wince. “After that… after she was gone, it was much easier to just give in and make the galaxy weep like I had.” Anakin had stopped, staring down at the prosthetic hands, holding the basket filled with three red roses, the colour of blood. Perhaps he was imagining them covered in all the blood he had spilt over the years.

“It’s been four years since the slave chip was removed,” Sy-Ro noted calmly. He was a psychiatrist. He wasn’t to judge, no matter whose family he was. And right now, he was judging his brother rather hard.

“Yes. It has.” There was a moment of silence as they both just stood (well, sat in the case of Anakin), taking in the sounds of nature around them. Then, “Villes was rather insistent on therapy. She threatened to section me if I didn’t do so voluntarily.” Sy-Ro resisted the urge to laugh. Trust Villes to threaten the most feared man in the galaxy.

“Doesn’t surprise me that she would,” he said, amusement in his voice. Anakin blinked, head tilted ever so slightly. Sy-Ro took that to mean he was curious. “I understand why you’re cautious about me. However, I don’t know anything about Obi-Wan. I could tell you about what was said in the holonet ten years ago. I could tell you that he was a stubborn child to put to sleep as a toddler. But I don’t know him. He’s a stranger to me.” _I was never given the chance to know him. To know my brother. Because attachment was forbidden._

“Here,” Anakin said, suddenly holding out the shears. For a brief moment, Sy-Ro wondered if he was about to get butchered with the Dark Lord’s gardening tools, but then realised the man only wanted him to take them. He did, but with much confusion. “Pick three roses. They don’t have to be red.”

“What for?” Sy-Ro asked, startled. “Won’t your mother-in-law mind us defacing her rose bushes?” If there were any one person that Sy-Ro didn’t want to cross, Jobal Naberrie was one of them. Anakin gave him a strangely lopsided grin, the most emotion he had showed to him so far, shaking his head.

“For your wife. And no, she won’t, considering they’re my roses.” _For Meera? His roses?_ Bewildered, Sy-Ro wandered, passing the red rose bush towards where a group of yellow roses grew a little-ways away. Well, yellow petals fading to orange. Meera had loved yellow lilies and these were close enough. Three flowers later, and feeling thoroughly confused, he followed Anakin through the garden, back towards the house. He was led into the conservatory with its huge, stained glass windows depicting the family- the doors were made up of Amidala and Anakin, their hands touching when the doors were closed. On the right, around Amidala, were her family- one panel for her parents, the second for Sola and another for Ryoo and Pooja. On the left was a woman who could only be Anakin’s mother- she shared his eye-colour and had the same smile- the second panel showing a couple on a desert planet with two suns while the third held a depiction of a Togruta female that he vaguely recognised as the girl who had followed the ‘Hero with No Fear’ during the Clone Wars. Obviously meant to be Anakin’s family. In one corner, underneath the image of Anakin’s mother was a small alter that would be missed were one not looking for it. Anakin carefully placed his roses in a vase already waiting, the subtle smell of some kind of incense rising from fragrant leaves in a bowl and a small box that had smoke lazily rising from it. Anakin held a different vase out. “On Tatooine, it was impossible for a slave to guarantee that they would be with their family forever. The moment a child was old enough, they would be sold separately from their parent or parents. So, we build alters to the goddess Mortea to look over them, when they are gone or dead.” Understanding came over Sy-Ro then and he nodded, accepting the vase, touched. “You don’t have to leave them here. Take them wherever you feel she would have liked.” A dismissal and Sy-Ro accepted that, turning and leaving.

It was not for him to disrupt another man’s mourning. Besides, he knew exactly the place Meera would have loved.

* * *

“You made quite the impression,” Sola said, finding him around lunchtime. The vase of Meera’s roses was placed on the steps next to him, overlooking the lakes. She had always wanted to move somewhere near a lake. Wanted the clear air, way from Coruscant’s pollution, thicker in the lower levels where she worked with the young and lost youths. There was something soothing about being here, about finding common ground with a man who had every right to throw him off his estate. The Senator settled on his other side, overlooking the jetty.

“I’m just glad he didn’t try to skewer me,” Sy-Ro said, trying for humour as she rolled her eyes.

“If anyone would understand suddenly becoming a widower, it’s Anakin,” she said serenely. “But thank you. For not leaving.”

“I wouldn’t,” Sy-Ro said evenly. “This is… good for me. And him. I needed time away from home, time to adjust and to do something other than moping around my home waiting for Meera to come back. And he’s…” Sy-Ro couldn’t quite vocalise what he wanted to say, shaking a hand out. “Besides, I haven’t refused a patient. Ever.” And he had had some _horrific_ cases. Generals in the Clone Wars, a couple of clones who had woken from the chips horrified by their work, men who had almost lost their lives, women trembling in his office as they waited for the master to return, children vicious and angry. Anakin would have fit right in at whatever age he had been sent to him. Sola gave him a soft smile, eyes slightly wet.

“Thank you,” she repeated, voice trembling. “We were so worried. Villes refused to return the new prosthetics until you arrived. We thought…” She trailed off, running her fingers over the steps. There was a story there, one he thought he could guess. “Mother is still angry but Ani… I don’t think he’ll ever get over losing Padme. Or the twins.” Sy-Ro winced. He knew what it was to be a widower- to have lost any children would have broken him as surely as it had broken Anakin.

“Does he have any other family?” Sy-Ro asked instead. He could admit he was still in denial, had been for a while. Anakin was still in depression, ten years later. It would take some time to help him move on to acceptance, and even then, it was unlikely he would return to be the same.

“A step-brother on Tatooine,” Sola said, “but they haven’t met in person for years.”

“His mother?” Sy-Ro asked, dreading the answer.

“Dead,” Sola confirmed. “She died in his arms fifteen years ago.” Sy-Ro winced again. Under Jedi teachings, he would have been denied the grieving process. It was an attachment he would have been encouraged to let go. Most likely something else he would need help with. It was a wonder he hadn't imploded sooner.

“I’d encourage him to reconnect to this brother of his, if he knew him at all. In person would be best. He’s going to need all the family he can get,” Sy-Ro recommended, “whether he accepts me or not.” Oddly, Sola grimaced.

“He would if he could. That’s why we gave Owen the comm but…” She trailed off, frowning, anger clear on her face. “Luke’s there.”

“Luke?”

“Anakin’s son.” Sy-Ro blinked at her. _Why_ had she left out _this_ piece of information? She held up a hand to cut him off. “It’s complicated. The Emperor would jump at the chance to get his grubby hands on him, and Sho told us some time ago she ran into Obi-Wan there too. If Anakin goes anywhere near Tatooine… he’ll know.” _And there’s no knowing how Anakin will react_ went unsaid. Hm, complicated indeed. Sy-Ro didn’t completely understand the Force, never really wanted to before, but for this case he supposed that he would have to. That said, it was becoming all the more disturbing, the more details he got. _So, the children aren’t dead but stolen. That’s…_ Sy-Ro grimaced himself. _What a cold-hearted bastard I have for a brother._ An uncharitable thought, but what did he know of Obi-Wan? The toddler he had once snuck sweets to and allowed to climb into his bed when terrified from a nightmare was gone. In his place was a fully formed perfect Jedi Knight.

“May I ask… with all this information you’ve given me, what was it that had you insisting for a psychiatrist? I’d say that he’s been running around in that state for a while.” Longer than a while if Sy-Ro had to guess. Sola sighed.

“He broke the window in the conservatory.” Sy-Ro blinked. That didn’t seem so bad. Sola grimaced at his confusion. “Villes had only just given him new prosthetics and he was two days out of surgery for his hearing, so he balance was off. The conservatory window… originally it was Obi-Wan. We were replacing it, but… I don’t know. Something snapped, he broke it and we thought he was going to throw himself off the balcony. It was Milè who stopped him.” Sy-Ro swallowed. The man had been on the brink, further gone than he had thought, and nothing had been able to stop him except a tiny girl, nearly five years old. She seemed happy enough, but it had probably been a traumatising moment in the young girl’s life, witnessing something like that. “So, Villes took the legs until his balance was back properly and ordered that he be under constant supervision. But… when he goes back…”

“You don’t know if he’s ready.” Sy-Ro could feel how monumental this task was. It would be no small feat to keep the man grounded, let alone when he wasn’t in a place as serene and _safe_ as this. If he could help it, he would recommend that the man never leave. But… it would appear the Naberries were up to something. Something that required Anakin where he was so… “I can only do my best. If he’ll let me.” Sola smiled then, her eyes bright for the first time since they started the conversation.

“You start tomorrow.”

**Author's Note:**

> I honestly have no idea where my brain was when I wrote this, but I'm sure we can all agree that Anakin is in need of all the therapy. Any therapy. Jedi teachings are not a healthy way of dealing with grief or slavery and this is why we have Anakin essentially self-imploding. Twice. More than twice actually. It's a wonder that no one told him to go visit a psychiatrist or mind healer or whatever it is the Jedi send their PTSD riddled members off to. Seriously.
> 
> It's also important to remember, that despite the fact we are supposed to cheer for them, the Rebels are in fact terrorists. And in their actions of inconveniencing the Empire, innocent people are going to get caught in the crossfire. Like half the staff of the Death Star who are there to just maintain the darn thing. I have an idea to add to this series about the philosophy of the Republic and how Palpatine was able to exploit it, along with a kind-of dissection of the picnic scene in Attack of the Clones where I swear Anakin half suggests that Padme should rule the galaxy (I know some people read it as Palpatine or that it's just an awkward 'ha ha, you kind of support authoritarianism', but to Anakin it's got to be frustrating to watch all of these idiots argue to their leisure while knowing that people are out there suffering). If you don't want to read that just shout at me or something- I know the prequels are not popular. And I have just ripped into the most beloved character quite hard here- and that will probably do so a lot more.
> 
> Anyhow, that aside, I hope I haven't depressed you too much and that this was somewhat enjoyable, if heavy and dark.


End file.
